by “Blanche Belvidere”
When you think of Lowell, some slogans may come to mind – such as “The Flowering City” or “There’s a Lot to Like About Lowell.” Somebody should change that slogan to “Lowell – There’s a Lot.”
But one of the oldest, and in my opinion, most significant, would be “Art is The Handmaid of Human Good.”
Look around you; there’s art everywhere!
Colorful murals splashed on the sides of old mill buildings and in alleys. Paintings in our parking garages. A variety of galleries and studios where one could find just about anything from gargoyles to dainty watercolor florals. Let’s not forget the different dance troupes, the clothing/textile designers, the musicians, the photographers, and of course, the writers. We’ve got Jack Kerouac all over the place. He may have topped the bill over other notable Lowellians such as Bette Davis and Paul Tsongas. They don’t get a month-long festival every year.
Albert Einstein once said, “Art is the expression of the profoundest thoughts…”
I always believed that one could project a feeling through various mediums. My personal choice is when I see something that emotes the raw realities of our existence. Not only do I prefer that in my art, but I expect it from people. Give me all your truths, joys, miseries, and grittiness, and I will gobble that shit up like free Kit-Kats on Halloween. I and many others enjoy the happy trees, flowers, and brightly colored abstracts. But you can’t have light without dark. Humans are not one-dimensional. Well, some are. But who cares about them? Like permanently smiling cardboard cut-outs of themselves. Boring, boring, boring.
Something I’ve noticed is that people are very touchy regarding expression. It’s too provocative, too acidic, too sexual. It’s not “real art” because it’s rough. Or it’s simply deemed ugly. I especially love hearing this from other artists or patrons of the arts. How does one define or judge the quality or validity of an individual’s emotional expression? Art isn’t supposed to be pretty. Are these the same people afraid to color outside the lines?
A woman who expressed a severe disdain for my previous article is most likely one of these folks. Sorry “Ellen,” who attended art school and is active in her church. You lack a sense of humor. And if we can’t laugh at ourselves and life, we’re all fucked. And I will answer your question regarding solutions to the homelessness crisis in another rant. I have plenty to offer you, but for now, you have to listen to me ramble on about a different group of ignoramuses.
Enough about that; let’s look at all the flack graffiti artists took over the years. These talented individuals used what they could find or steal to make stunningly beautiful creations wherever they could locate a blank canvas. Much to my surprise, it became trendy over the years. No, I’m not talking about some dimwit that left his stupid tag on someone else’s piece of art. That’s vandalism. I would love to see beautiful graffiti art beneath the overpasses and bridges, and I heard the city recently called for it.
I don’t know; if it moves me, I will display it, hang it, or read it. I might even try to eat it. The same goes for whatever I decide to create or spew. It’s mine. Some of the same people singing Kerouac’s praises seem to forget he was also known by the locals as being passed out in the street lying in his piss. Much of what he wrote was in an alcohol-induced haze. That doesn’t make it any less good. And he didn’t care much for being labeled as a beatnik or put into a category. I know this because I used to take one of his best friends out to lunch and buying him booze would cost me a small fortune. But I heard some great stories and occasionally showed some pretty incriminating photos.
An older gentleman (yes, he’s been chronically homeless) hangs around Gorham St. that used to call me twice a week to read his latest poetry. He would often trail off about 7 minutes into it because he drank too much, but it was some damn good stuff about heartache, lost love, and the yearning for his virile youth. This man is an artist. It also appears I have a thing for drunk old guys – I find them very insightful.
Let’s get him to write something for InsideLowell so the art patrons and “ladies who lunch” can judge. No doubt he’s a lot more fun at parties than they are.
He’s honest and authentic, and more people should be like him. You know who you are – the artists knocking other artists or being mad at the city because you must get your shit together in a few short weeks to paint a mural. When an out-of-town artist was chosen, you all got your panties in a knot. This kind of behavior bedevils me and seems so childish. Remember kids: second place is the first loser. You can complain about it, or you can try harder next time. Find the pathos and channel it into something mindblowing – there’s no way someone is always all hearts and flowers. There MUST be something else in your emotional Rolodex! Even occasional constipation can rouse some mood-altering behavioral rollercoasters.
I’m not saying one must be under the influence, or constipated to create art. What I’m saying is respect the expression. It takes guts to show a not-so-fluffy aspect of yourself or to do something daring and different for the public to see. Some artists are known to stay awake until 5 am, frantically creating something because the Muse appeared, and we just need to get it out like diahrrea. It may even be destroyed when complete. Not all art is a still-life painting of a bowl of fruit.
I leave you with a rather dull quote from Jack – “I don’t really go out at all.” I dig that, and neither do I. Socializing in crowds is exhausting. I prefer the dark, hole-in-the-wall joints. You’re left alone to observe quietly or briefly converse with strangers. I draw inspiration from the loners, scorned lovers, those who have lived life’s hard knocks, and half-in-the-bag prophets.
ART. It should be respected, and valued. And like love, being one of human’s most profound and often delirious expressions – you can’t live without it – in all its forms.
